


The Lies We Lead

by BadWolf256



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 23:36:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11955078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadWolf256/pseuds/BadWolf256
Summary: When she was seventeen, she made up a man as a cover story. When she was nineteen, she was handed a gun and told to kill one. On the streets of London, a traumatized war veteran will cross paths with one of the most dangerous operatives in all of Great Britain, a seemingly innocent shop girl with only one task, a task that will, one day, reveal the lies they lead.





	The Lies We Lead

**Author's Note:**

> Despite having written fanfic for a good two years now, this is the first piece of work I've ever published. This story is a multi-chapter fic, and updating will be... Whenever I can find the time to update, hopefully once every one to two weeks. However, rest assured that I have no intentions of abandoning this fic or any other fic that I start.

Some small light in the darkness shines, illuminating her features in the dimly lit room. Hair like chestnuts, long, wavy around her pale shoulders, eyes, forest orbs with just a fleck of starlight. Flash drive gripped in the curve of her fingers, turning it back and forth between her hands with elegant motions, kicks the dirty mattress in the corner out of boredom. 

“G.” 

“A.” 

It’s a meeting of sorts, though he has a hood on, because, if A. has any say in it, one can never be too careful. 

“You have a new assignment.” 

“I figured.” 

“Time Lord.” 

A split second, alarm ringing in her brain, she fights to pull it all together, left in the end with only one conclusion. 

“It’ll be dealt with.” 

“We’re waiting to see how long it is ‘til you fail.” 

"It'll be _dealt_ with." 

“How long?” 

“Don’t know. Never done it before. Well, not the Time Lord part.” She throws the flash drive in her hand, but a different one snatches it out of the darkness before she can. 

“You really should be more careful with this, G.” 

“Shut it.” She plucks the drive out of his hands and resigns herself to twirling it between her fingers, not listening to him when he walks away.

“Have fun with your Time Lord, G.” 

***

“G-” 

“Rose.” 

_"Rose?"_ The older woman quirks a skeptical eye at her. 

“Don’t worry. I won’t be staying long.” 

“Nonsense! ‘Course you’ll be stayin’!” 

“I’m on an assignment.” 

“So tha’s why you came.” Her voice drops into low, dangerous territory. 

“Got a problem with that? No? Good.” 

The old bedroom stands where it always did, same squeaky bed in the corner, same bedspread of orange-red squares over yellow sheets. Same wicker chair by the dusty shelf filled with books she hasn’t read in years. She left one out, last time, teal bookmark still on the page that lies only halfway finished. Same old wardrobe, too, clothes that she wouldn’t be caught dead wearing in public if she could help it, but there’s no choice now. The Agency did extensive research, and yes, there isn’t any other way. So. 

Department store. 

A. and R. so owe her for this. 

Schedule already memorized, accent relearned and rehearsed over t.v. dinners. Contact lenses transform green to whiskey-hazel, a good helping of bleach and a pair of scissors completing it all, low-rise jeans thrown on. 

Step One: Work for a month or three, get a hang of the place, immerse yourself in the culture of your assignment. A. thinks it’s stupid, but the Agency insists. Step One: Easy enough. The people at work: boring, unoriginal, completely oblivious to anything that’s going on. So there’s a downside. On the upside, she has a boyfriend now. Or he thinks he’s her girlfriend, which is as good as it would ever get with him, she knew from the start, which was when they were five, but still. Boyfriend. Mickey. Trying to spend significant amounts of time with her. Never mind, boyfriend is a downside too. Not that Mickey is himself a bad person, quite to the contrary. He’s… He’s Mickey. And that has to count for something. Step One: Complete. 

Step Two: Pack up. She can’t pack much, not yet. Most of that will happen once she intercepts the target for the first time, convinces him to take her on. By that time she should have an idea of what she’ll need. There are some things, though. The entirety of her wardrobe, a year’s worth of colored contacts, computer thrown in the back, seventeen passwords on the lock screen alone. 

Step Three: Know the date. More like know the schedule. And she knows the schedule. Henrik’s. April 26th. Already on the night shift, lottery ticket snuck in by an… acquaintance, the night before it would all go down. 

Step Four: Go. 

They hand her the keys as she pretends to walk out with Shareen, a look on her face that would be clearly fake to anyone who knows it. Takes the bag gratefully and runs back inside, turning down the corner to the electrician’s office and wondering what exactly she’s getting herself into. The specific Time Lord she’s after isn’t exactly known for showing up when things are going right, or showing up on time at all, which, considering his species, he really should have that looked at. The electricians office, as it turns out, is occupied by a dead electrician. Not surprising. Not really. She slides the lottery ticket under anyway. His wife might be glad, if she knows he’s won. Next it’s time to back up, look at the bigger picture. Which, today, involves mannequins. Lots and lots of mannequins. 

She’s backing up out of instinct more than acting, by this point, calling out the dead man’s name in the hopes that someone, anyone, will hear her. _God, Mum, I should've told you..._ No, snap out of it, she thinks, back pressing against a piece of… She isn’t really sure. But like hell is she going to die in a basement of a cheap department store, not without at least meeting the target. Who’s currently grabbing her hand and telling her to 

“Run.” 

Trying to run slowly enough to appear like someone whose life doesn’t involve running on a daily basis just might be the hardest thing she’s ever done. Of course, then she has to talk with the walking thing that should be dead in front of her. No, not should be dead. _Will_ be dead. That’s her job, after all, the job that waits for her when this is all over. Space between them as he tells her, in no uncertain terms, that he’s the Doctor, she should get away from the building as quickly as she possibly can, and she’ll never see him again. _I know who you-Wait, are you leaving?!_ She needs to catch him, tries to catch him, before she remembers the whole ‘get out of the building' part. 

A. might forgive her for this. Maybe. Probably not. Which leaves only one option. Going after him, tomorrow, soon. First, she’ll exit the building, hardly to the block corner when shrapnel rains down on the pavement, so close she can feel the ground shake a little, smirks a bit because she’s been closer before. Obviously, she’s been closer before. One bus and she’s back home, throwing the plastic arm from the lift in the dumpster, sitting on the couch and she’s never been _farther_ from reaching a goal. 

“Thought you were leavin’.” 

“I thought so too.” 

A cup of tea has appeared, but she doesn’t drink it. Pulls out her computer and spends the time to unlock it, one message on the screen. R. 

_A. is getting worried. Check in with us when you’re ready to admit that taking this was an idiotic move._

The next morning she finds a man on the internet who knows about her. It’s people like him, she thinks, that give the Agency a bad name. How the hell are they supposed to keep a steady reputation if any old person has access to information regarding _Time Lords_ of all things. God, but Kovarian’ll have their heads if this gets out. Only one thing for it. She brings a gun with her. 

The man, his name is Clive, she thinks, he’s nice enough. The house is a bit run down, the wife a bit too nervous, and she can almost believe that the sweet woman doesn’t need to die today, but there’s nothing else to do. The only one who’s waiting for her is Mickey, and really, she’s fine letting him wait. Clive has some information. Some. Hardly enough to be considered knowledgeable in matters such as this. A few pictures, nothing she hasn’t seen before. The Titanic, ever a classic, one of the first things that the Agency showed her. Pompeii, she stumbled across it at the archive once. Nothing much. Nothing that would cause them to be a threat to the Agency. She’s one minute away from taking it out of her purse when she remembers that Mickey’s taking her out to lunch. She can come back and finish this later. 

Something is off about Mickey, other than just the fact that he’s Mickey, and she pities, him, really. It isn’t his fault that he’s so boring. It isn't his fault that she doesn't have time to worry about him, but it's not because he's Mickey. It's because she doesn’t have _time._ The target is the only thing that matters right now. Although, he is buying lunch for her. Except, wait, he’s actually turned into a giant plastic person who’s breaking the table apart. So much for an ordinary day out. On the plus side… 

The target. 

Right. Game time. 

***

Arguably, she played the game too well. Tried to be someone that she’s not, harder than usual. Tried to be… 

Fuck. 

Fuck it all. 

She was trying to be herself. She was trying to be herself and she couldn’t. Couldn’t escape the fear that coursed through her veins underneath the London Wheel. It’s not like she hasn’t done this before. Chasing, rescuing. Killing. Aliens, even. Humans from another planet, technically. She’s assisted with a Time Lord before, but that was R’s, and R’s alone. She was only a distraction, one that the stupid ass lord of time decided to take. It was the last mistake of his life. No, the interacting part. Interacting with targets is par for the course, but only in very limited doses. That’s the real reason that this assignment is so dangerous. This isn’t just a Time Lord. This is a man who she’ll be _living_ with, for however long it takes her to dispose of him. A man she’ll be spending every day with. There is a threat here that’s more deadly than any alien could be. 

She could get attached. 

It is this, the last piece of the puzzle, that draws her out of whatever deluded fantasy she’s living in. Taking out a Time Lord? By herself? With no Agency resources? Like that’s ever going to happen. 

She tells him no. He talks about the stars with such wonder on his face, but she cannot stand to look at it in that moment, not when it’s so bright, so animated, so alive, a living testament to what has been, thus far, a complete and utter failure. Eyes that blaze with blue fire that she should have extinguished by now. There is no chance of it ever happening, and there never was. She tells him no, it’s fine, really. Makes up an excuse that he, at least, finds acceptable, turns around and walks back to Powell Estates alone. 

The other inhabitant of the flat doesn’t even bother talking to her. The look on her face says it all. _I knew you wouldn’ do it. ‘S not who you are._ She can hear her answer, words that have no voice, not yet, and she won’t let them, not in the mood that she’s in now. 

Step Five: Pack up, for the Agency this time. Grab the weapons, all of them. Three different knives, a gun, an ax that’s carried in a multi-dimensional pinbox, technology borrowed courtesy of Rassilon’s great, once-living empire. The pins themselves aren’t kept in the box, they’re clipped onto the bag’s zipper, because having a laser pin handy is a necessity in her job. The computer, too, will go in the duffel. Last, most importantly, tucked into the furthest down pocket, she tosses the silver-chrome flash drive, initials marked in dark black _Sharpie_. One of the other three who used that _Sharpie_ is going to take the mission for her. 

She is dragging it downstairs when the anger starts. Burns, liquid fire in her veins. Who is she to give up on the most important assignment of her career? She could get kicked out for pulling something like this, making contact and then leaving?! So long to a long and fruitful life at the Agency. 

She is downstairs when she hears the all-too familiar noise, wide grin spreading across her face because she has everything she needs to do this in the bag, and he’s giving her another chance. 

“Did I mention it travels in time?” 

She knew from run. She knew she’d get it right, this time. 

So she runs out the door. 

Runs, and laughs at how quickly she could make the Earth stop spinning under his feet. 

Runs, and slows at the thought of his animated grin turned lifeless. 

Runs, trying harder than she has ever tried in her life to ignore how easily she could silence his heartbeat.


End file.
